In the Deep

by White, Loreth Anne

  A little girl who’d seen it all.

  A little girl named Maya who’d been effectively orphaned by the incident.

  A child who had forced Lozza to look hard into the mirror, to clean up. To question everything about life. And once she’d cleaned up, once she’d requested a transfer, once she’d been offered a position in Jarrawarra with the help of some compassionate superiors—in spite of Corneil’s campaign against her—she’d applied to adopt Maya.

  Corneil’s battle against Lozza had been pure personal vendetta. Ugliness. He’d needed to kick back at her—at anyone—because his wife, on learning about their affair, had walked out on him. Corneil’s wife had gotten custody of their three kids. He’d gotten nothing. He’d coped by blaming Lozza, and it had become like a sickness in him. And then he’d used the “incident” of her violence like a weapon with which to beat her down.

  He hadn’t succeeded.

  She was here.

  She had Maya.

  She had her new normal.

  Now he was fucking standing in it, in her face.

  She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders.

  “Are we going to be good?” he said quietly.

  “Water under the bridge. Sir.” She emphasized the last word.

  “Since you’re being seconded to this case, and since you’ll be resuming criminal investigative duties, your detective designation will be reinstated. Temporarily,” Corneil said.

  It wasn’t a rank. Lozza had never lost her detective designation while performing general duties. She just wasn’t referred to as Detective.

  “Right,” she said. Corneil clearly hadn’t let all the water flow under the bridge. He’d dammed up a little toxic reservoir of it.

  Gregg approached.

  “Gregg,” she said, “this is Detective Senior Constable Corneil Tremayne from homicide.”

  “Detective Sergeant Tremayne,” he corrected, proffering his hand to Gregg.

  Resentment bit into Lozza. While she’d been pushed down the cop ladder into general duties and a remote backwater, Corneil had climbed up on the coveted city-based squad and become a sergeant. And now he was Lozza’s boss on this case. On her turf.

  I took this demotion for Maya. This is about me and Maya now, our new normals. Do not get sucked back into his aura and head games. I do not want what he has . . . or do I?

  Gregg glanced at Lozza—he could clearly sense the tension. “Constable Abbott,” he said, shaking Corneil’s hand.

  “Where’s the body?” Corneil asked.

  “This way, sir,” said Gregg, leading the way, whereas last time it was Lozza who’d had to bushwhack in for Gregg before he’d gone and fallen in, then puked all over the place.

  She held back a moment and watched the two men ahead of her. Already Gregg was sucking up to the new man on scene.

  THEN

  LOZZA

  Over one year ago, November 19. Jarrawarra Bay police station, New South Wales.

  Lozza entered the briefing room clutching an armful of files and a triple-shot mug of coffee. It was midmorning and she’d gotten maybe an hour’s sleep, if that. She and Gregg and Corneil had stayed at the Agnes crime scene until almost dawn.

  The mood in the room was somber yet crackling with electric anticipation.

  Corneil had taken up position in front of a board on the wall. A monitor had been wheeled in. On a table in front of him was a laptop. Gregg had gone and seated himself right in front of Corneil—like an eager teacher’s pet. Jon Ratcliffe sat at a desk in the corner. He was here mostly to observe. This was happening on his watch, his turf, with the assistance of his officers, but the investigation itself was being run out of State Crime Command.

  “Thank you for joining us, Senior Constable,” Corneil said as Lozza entered.

  She nodded and kept her mouth shut. She found a seat at a desk beneath the window, set down her files, and took a giant swig of caffeine.

  Also present in the room was a female officer in plain clothes whom Lozza did not recognize, plus Constable “Henge” Markham, who was tall and skinny and a whip-fit hydrofoil surfer and Constable “Jimmo” Duff, who had a Kevin Costner face and a way with the ladies that made up for his squat stature. The Jarrawarra-based team was small, but it was supported by the full resources of State Crime Command, including the state forensics services unit, additional murder squad detectives out of HQ, and technical support from the fraud and cybercrime units. Corneil could ramp up or down at any given point plus call on additional specialized units for assistance.

  Corneil scrawled along the top of the crime scene board: STRIKE FORCE ABRA, the name he was giving to this homicide investigation.

  He tapped his black marker pen against the palm of his hand and faced the group.

  “Okay, good morning. I’d like you all to welcome Detective Constable Sybil Grant from Crime Command.”

  Sybil—the cop in plain clothes—nodded unsmilingly. She had a tan face. Clean look. Dark-blonde hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. She carried an aura of experience.

  “This will be brief. Things are still evolving, and right now, time is of the essence. Ellie Cresswell-Smith has identified the ring we found on the deceased as being her husband’s. Mrs. Cresswell-Smith has also positively identified the body from one of the kinder photographs that DC Grant showed her this morning, just before she was discharged from the hospital. The autopsy is in progress. It will likely provide positive DNA identification, but we are presently working on the assumption that the body found floating in the Agnes Bay channel belongs to Martin Cresswell-Smith.”

  “Where’s Ellie now?” asked Lozza. “You mentioned she’s been discharged.”

  “DC Grant brought her back here, to the station. She’s being held and is awaiting questioning. We also have officers at her home executing a search warrant. While the house is not the murder scene, we have a warrant to seize Martin Cresswell-Smith’s computers and any other communication devices we might find in order to further our investigation.”

  Corneil quickly ran through the facts to date, including how the Cresswell-Smiths were seen going out in the boat, but only Ellie seemed to have returned.

  “Latent and patent prints from the abandoned farmhouse are being processed,” said Corneil. “Same with the biological and other evidence. The boat is still missing. There’s no sign of the Rolex Daytona that Mrs. Cresswell-Smith said her husband always wore. We’re also looking for the male with the tattoo that left a package of contraband at the Pug and Whistler addressed to Mrs. Cresswell-Smith. At this point she is our key person of interest, but we’re working from the possibility she has an accomplice.”

  Gregg said, “That was not a calm, organized killing. There’s overkill in all that stabbing. And the gaff left in the chest? Like some kind of statement.”

  Lozza rolled her eyes internally. The rookie was posturing in front of the big shot from HQ. It kind of made her sick, but she had to confess she’d been there. They’d all been probies once. They’d all sought to jockey and impress.

  “It’s possible it started out controlled,” Sybil—DC Grant—said. “But then it could have devolved into uncontrolled passion.” She pointed to an image of the pruning shears up on the screen. “Cutting off fingers—that smacks of torture. Of someone seeking information. As do the ropes and the chair found in the abandoned homestead.”

  “The guy was scared,” added Jimmo. “He shat and peed his pants.”

  “Maybe he didn’t give up what his assailant wanted,” said Lozza. “Maybe Martin Cresswell-Smith refused, his captor was enraged, and snapped.”

  Corneil held her gaze. She cursed to herself. She could feel in his gaze that he was reminding her that she, too, could have—had—snapped. Become enraged, violent.

  “So my question,” Gregg said, “is why try to dispose of him underwater like that? If someone was trying to hide the body, why did they leave the ropes and pruning shears, and all the other evidence, in plain sight inside the ho
use?”

  “Because maybe something went wrong?” offered Henge. “Like, there was a plan, and it changed on the fly. In a rush. Maybe the suspect or suspects were disturbed and fled in a hurry.”

  “Any idea of time of death, or how long the body was in water, yet?” Sybil asked.

  Corneil said, “Preliminary estimate from the pathologist is that he was killed sometime late on November seventeen. He was in water maybe twenty-four hours. Those muddies work fast.”

  Lozza knew this to be true. You could leave massive fish heads in a crab pot late at night, and come early morning the bait would be all but gone.

  Corneil continued. “So between five forty a.m. November seventeen—the time the Cresswell-Smiths were seen going out in the Abracadabra—and seven forty p.m., when the neighbor saw Mrs. Creswell-Smith stumbling home, she conceivably had a window of opportunity, if the pathologist’s preliminary estimate holds up.”

  “She could also have taken the drugs and purposefully passed out, sort of as an alibi,” suggested Gregg. “The alleged memory loss could be a convenient tool. Except things went wrong and she fell and hit her head.”

  “Or,” said Henge, “she could have used the overdose simply to misdirect suspicion from herself while also working with a coconspirator. Because a woman like that—heiress with tons of money all her life—people like her hire others to do dirty work.”

  “Maybe the bikie,” suggested Gregg.

  Lozza juggled the various puzzle pieces in her head but did not offer too much input. She preferred at this point to stay out of Corneil’s crosshairs. Jon had obviously already told Corneil about Lozza delivering the drugs. If he had a chance, he’d use that against her.

  “Okay,” said Corneil. “Assignments. DC Grant, you’re on victimology. We need everything we can find on Martin Cresswell-Smith—who he was, what he did, where he comes from, who his friends and family are, what his beliefs are, who his enemies are, what he was doing before he came to Australia, any criminal record anywhere.”

  “On it, sir,” said Sybil.

  “Constables Markham, Duff, the greenies are yours. Bring the ringleaders in. Constables Bianchi, Abbott, since you both already have history with the wife, I want you two to handle the initial interview with Ellie Cresswell-Smith.”

  It did not escape Lozza’s attention that Corneil had not referred to her as a senior constable. The guy was a jerk.

  “When DC Grant brought Mrs. Cresswell-Smith into the station from the hospital this morning,” Corneil continued, “she learned that Mrs. Cresswell-Smith had booked a flight out of Moruya Airport that left yesterday. She missed it because she was in hospital. Mrs. Cresswell-Smith made clear to DC Grant that she intends to purchase another plane ticket and return to Canada as soon as she can. So find something we can use to keep her in the country. She’s our number one. I don’t want to lose access to her.” He paused. “Any questions?”

  No one responded.

  “Right, let’s get to it,” Corneil said. “We’ve got photos of Martin Cresswell-Smith’s missing bronze Rolex Daytona out with Crime Stoppers and the media. It’s worth seventy thousand dollars, give or take. If anyone tries to hawk it, I want to know. We’ve also got the rego and hull identification number of the Abracadabra out there, plus photos of a similar Quinnie model. If anyone tries to sell a boat with that HIN number, I want to know about it. Plus, we’ve got a BOLO on this man—” He tapped his Sharpie on an image on the board of the bald bikie with ink on his neck. “Who is he? How is he connected to Ellie Cresswell-Smith? How are they both connected to the black-market prescription drugs? Why was that package left so openly at the Puggo with Ellie’s name on it?” He met the eyes of each officer in the room. “We meet back here at the end of the day to debrief. The clock is ticking. Get me something.”

  THEN

  LOZZA

  “Thank you for coming in,” Lozza said as she seated herself at the table opposite Ellie. Gregg took the chair to Lozza’s left. “How are you feeling?”

  The woman looked weak. Thinner. Very pale. Dark circles under her eyes. She still had a bandage on her brow. Lozza wondered if they were doing the right thing, bringing her in like this right out of the hospital.

  Ellie’s gaze met Lozza’s for a brief moment, then twitched up to the camera near the ceiling. Clearly she was aware they were being observed. So was Lozza. She could feel Corneil’s eyes on them.

  “I don’t remember anything more, if that’s what you mean,” Ellie said. “And I didn’t come in. I was brought in.”

  Defensive.

  Lozza nodded to Gregg. He pressed the “Record” button.

  “Interview with Ellie Cresswell-Smith, November nineteen, 11:02 a.m., conducted at Jarrawarra Bay by Senior Constable Laurel Bianchi with Constable Gregg Abbott present.” She gave their ID numbers.

  “I’m very sorry about your husband, Ellie,” Lozza said quietly. “I understand you’ve made a positive ID based on photographs.”

  She nodded.

  “Could you speak out your answers for the recording, please,” she said.

  “Yes,” said Ellie with a flash of her eyes to the camera again.

  “We’re still awaiting a positive DNA—”

  “It’s him. I know it’s him.”

  Lozza held her gaze. “You’re very certain.”

  Ellie swallowed. Her nose pinked. “I could tell from those photos. I don’t have any doubt.”

  Lozza nodded. “Okay, and you do understand that we need to ask you some questions as we conduct our investigation into what happened to your husband?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have any idea what might have occurred?” she asked.

  “I already told you everything I know at the hospital. I didn’t go out in the boat with him.”

  “But we have multiple witnesses who saw you going out, Ellie. Including Constable Abbott here. He saw you through a telescope.”

  Her eyes ticked to Gregg.

  A muscle on Gregg’s jaw pulsed.

  “Let’s start with your memory of your husband’s premature return from Sydney, shall we? What brought him home early?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t recall if he told me.”

  “Did you perhaps phone him, tell him to come home?”

  “Why would I? I was packed and ready to leave. I had a plane ticket. I wanted to be gone before he returned.”

  “So you remember that now?”

  She looked nervous for a moment. “I . . . guess I do. Bits must be coming back.”

  “Why did you want to be gone?”

  “He was having an affair. I’d gotten proof. I didn’t want to confront him because he could be violent. I’d also come to realize he was a con artist. He’d stolen everything I’d brought to the marriage. I . . .” Her voice faded and she stopped speaking. Two hot spots had formed high on her cheekbones.

  “What was he doing in Sydney?” Lozza asked.

  “Screwing his mistress and getting ready to flee the country with my money—hell knows. I plan to deal with the legal ramifications from home.”

  Lozza’s gaze held hers. “His mistress being—”

  “Oh, please, don’t patronize me. You people are searching my home as we speak. You probably already found the photos of my husband and Rabz that were in my studio. I’m sure you’ve already questioned her and everyone else who knows me and Martin, plus everyone who saw the boat going out, plus my neighbor. What else do you want from me? Am . . . I’m not a suspect here, am I?”

  “We need to cover some bases, Ellie.” Lozza opened her file folder and extracted a few photos taken at the murder scene. “Do you recognize these?” She pushed toward Ellie the images of the blue windbreaker and the ball cap stained with blood.

  “Yes. They’re mine. That’s blood on them.”

  “Blood?”

  “Martin’s, mostly. And probably some of mine. From when I stabbed him.”

  Lozza blinked. “You’re admitting you stabbed your
husband?”

  “When we went out on the Abracadabra, right after I landed in Jarrawarra, I had an accident with the knife and cut Martin. I was wearing that jacket and cap. I left them in the garage. Ask anyone who was at the boat launch that day. Martin had gotten a foul hook in his neck, and . . . we both had blood on us. Witnesses on the cliff saw us coming in. Martin went to the hospital, so the doctors know about it, too. You’ll probably find my fingerprints on the fishing knife and gaff, too, because I picked them up with my bloodied hands that day.”

  “How do you know about the gaff?”

  “It was in one of the photos Detective Constable Sybil Grant showed me in order to identify the body.”

  Lozza leaned forward. “Ellie, how did your jacket and cap end up in the derelict farmhouse at Agnes?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You were wearing these items when you were seen going out with Martin on the Abracadabra on November seventeen.”

  “I . . . I didn’t go out with him again. I wouldn’t have.”

  “I told you—you were seen by several witnesses, including Constable Abbott.”

  “Well, then, I can’t remember it. And I really can’t understand why I would have gone out with him again. I hated the boat. The first incident terrified me. Martin wanted it to terrify me. He won.”

  Lozza said slowly, “So how do you think your jacket and cap with Martin’s and your blood got to the abandoned house in the mangroves at Agnes Basin where Martin was killed?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Gregg said, “Had you ever been to that abandoned farmhouse, Ellie?”

  Her gaze ticked nervously to Gregg. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Maybe?” asked Lozza.

  She inhaled deeply. “The day I arrived in Jarrawarra, Martin drove me up to Agnes and took me into Agnes Basin and into that channel on the Abracadabra. We had lunch and I . . . I passed out in the boat. In retrospect I think he might have spiked my wine or my water, and maybe even the cider he gave me right after I landed, because I kept on having these episodes. I think he was gaslighting me—trying to make me go mad, or feel like I was going mad, so it would look normal if I overdosed on drugs or something. Then he’d cash in on the insurance he took out on me, plus he’d own everything I’d invested in Agnes Holdings.”